Golden Rings
by LadyDivine91
Summary: Crowley has multiple ways of dealing with his anxiety. His mail suit of golden rings, forged over time, that turns him from his demon self into a golden statue, an object of his Master's pleasure, is one of those. Aziraphale x Crowley


_**Notes:**_

_**Written for the '12 Days of Blasphemy' prompt 'golden rings'. Warning for anxiety and objectification.**_

"Chains have been traditionally used to _defeat_ demons, you know," Aziraphale quips, holding open the waist of Crowley's rather unique mail suit so the demon can comfortably step in.

"Bringing up old lovers again?" Crowley teases. "Because under the circumstances, now may not be the best time."

"Hush, you. You know full well that you're the only demon I have ever considered sullying the temple of my celestial body with."

"And I feel honored." Crowley glances down the length of his body, appraising the fit. "Do you think the angels playing guard dog down in the bottomless pit are doing _anything_ close to this?"

Aziraphale shakes his head with what could be seen as hypocritical disapproval at the thought as Crowley steps into the other leg. The soles of his feet meet hard, unyielding metal, resting atop an even more hard and unyielding stone floor. "Had you asked me that a few months ago, I would have said definitively _not_. But now, seeing what we've seen of _angels_ …" He says the word with mild disgust "… I can't give you anything close to an answer on that."

Aziraphale tugs the trousers up Crowley's legs to his waist, then holds them as Crowley settles down into his throne. Aziraphale straightens the suit as Crowley sits in it, smoothing the "fabric" against his bare skin. Then he helps him with the hauberk of it, lowering it carefully over his head and fitting his arms through the sleeves. The gloves come next, and then the hood. A snap of Aziraphale's fingers seal the edges together until separate entities become a single seamless outfit, covering Crowley from head to toe, with one exception.

That _exception_ becomes stiffer, brick red and flushed, bobbing with anticipation as Aziraphale looms, hands on hips, to watch it grow. He steps back, chuckles fondly at a sight that brings him back all the way to The Kingdom of Wessex.

"Wot?" Crowley asks.

"You are, my dear, as the kids say, _extra_."

Crowley smirks, slitted eyes glowing beneath the lip of his mail hood. "Give me some credit, angel. I was _extra_ long before being extra was even a thing."

Aziraphale smiles at his snarky demon – the bristly, abrasive, and yet distinctly fragile love of his existence. "That you were. That you were."

The suit Crowley wears is made of hundreds of interlocking golden rings - a creation cobbled together over time, centuries in the making. He'd collected the rings himself one by one, trophies of the temptations he'd been the most proud of: priests, politicians, police officers, teachers - people the public trusted, in positions of power, which made their brand of Evil all the more detestable. He hadn't gone and turned fine, upstanding citizens rotten. He'd found humans who were already corrupt at heart. He simply robbed them of their safeguards, their sense of self-preservation. Then he gave them a little push, engineered their downfalls in a way to ensure they wouldn't get away with their dastardly deeds.

Once he had the rings, he'd had the bright idea to make a hauberk out of them.

And he did.

But once _that_ was completed, he couldn't be stopped.

He had so many rings – some plain bands, some ridiculously ornate – he had to do _something_ with them. He couldn't get rid of them.

Not these.

Evil clings to greed and humans are too easily swayed. Normally that wouldn't concern him to the point of protecting humans from it. They'll do what they'll do regardless.

Time has taught him that.

It just felt wrong setting them up to fail in this particular way.

It felt too familiar.

For Aziraphale's purposes, this suit is an unexpected blessing. When Crowley first requested Aziraphale tie him down, Aziraphale was intimidated by the thought. He learned _how_, of course, but _weighing_ Crowley down works so much better. Less of a chance of Aziraphale getting caught up in the line himself … which, regrettably, has happened once or twice.

Or three times.

The links of Crowley's suit make the demon easy to move and manipulate.

To subdue.

But it also comes with an interesting side-effect.

It keeps Crowley calm.

The weight of it pressing in on him, grounding him, keeps his mind from wandering.

And Crowley needs calming today, having run into Hastur and Gabriel while walking the streets of Soho, within an hour of one another.

They didn't seem to notice him. They definitely didn't stop to make polite conversation. By all outward appearances, they had no business with him. When he returned to Aziraphale's bookshop, he was fine.

But then he wasn't.

At first, he had difficulty explaining to his angel what had happened that sent him rushing into the back room and straight into a bottle of brandy. The encounter had swiped his words away.

But Aziraphale knew what Crowley needed.

He needed to stop existing as himself for a while.

And Aziraphale, slightly shaken himself knowing there'd been an Archangel _and_ a Duke of Hell in Soho, for however brief a time, was more than happy to oblige.

Once Aziraphale pulls the hood over Crowley's face and seals it shut, he'll be Crowley no more. He'll become an object, an idol - a golden statue commemorating the Serpent of Eden.

A place holder for Aziraphale's favorite stress relief, which he'll get to use and torment for as long as he sees fit.

"You're sure this is what you want?" Aziraphale asks a third time to be sure.

"Yes, Sir," Crowley answers, the addition of the _Sir_ proof that he's made up his mind.

"Me, too. Now, once I put this hood over your head, we'll begin. If you want me to stop …"

"I know what to do."

Aziraphale nods. "All right. Here we go."

"Angel?"

"Yes?"

Crowley looks up at Aziraphale, one last time while he still has permission to do so. "May I have a kiss?"

Aziraphale smiles softly. "Of course, you may." The angel bends over, leans close, and presses his lips against Crowley's mouth. Aziraphale kisses Crowley tenderly, reassuringly, and Crowley kisses him back.

When Crowley's kisses stop, Aziraphale pulls away.

Crowley's eye are closed.

Aziraphale kisses him again but he no longer responds.

That's Aziraphale's cue.

Aziraphale lowers the hood. It falls against Crowley's face, the outline of his brow and nose and lips visible, but nothing beyond that, no detail to separate him from any other human male shaped thing.

With a snap of Aziraphale's fingers, the hood connects to the rest of the suit at the neck.

And Crowley disappears.


End file.
